


Chapter Forty-Five: Dead to Rights

by CavalierConvoy



Series: MTMTE Series One: Shoot Straight with a Crooked Gun [46]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers Generation One, Transformers Generation Two
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Character Death, Gen, Medical Trauma, Other, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalierConvoy/pseuds/CavalierConvoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overlord is dead. And that's supposed to be a good thing.</p><p>Isn't it?</p><p>Artemis realises everything had been connected all along. But missing an arm, a dying friend, and Ratchet confiscating her flask, it's not going to be easy to hunt down whoever was responsible for the Phase Sixer's presence on board the <i>Lost Light</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter Forty-Five: Dead to Rights

Excise the chords to extinguish the voice  
black veiled intentions leave us no choice  
Relinquish control to restore the order  
misplace the grace to hang the martyr

 -- ["Dead to Rights"](http://www.reverbnation.com/particleson/song/13064617-dead-to-rights) by Particle Son

 _Lost Light  
_ Now

Searing pain flared up Artemis's entire left side, thoughts discombobulated. _What just happened?_

 _Oh._ She did something stupid. Facing down a Phase-Sixer with a handgun in close quarters: not the wisest of moves. Went back for seconds, that time with a knife. Also not wise.

She rolled to her right side, pushing herself up to her knees with one hand. Her left arm was unresponsive — small wonder, it was shone from the shoulder socket, her left front axle twisted, tyre shredded, wheel base wrecked. Well. That would explain the pain. 

Whirl was nearby, half-way out of vehicle mode, stoved up and twitching. Brawn, Dipstick on her right, conscious but barely. Cosmos was down for the count, a groan escaping his throat. Smokescreen was on her left, perhaps the best in shape of the lot of them, but given the mangle that was his left leg, standing would be a challenge.

She groped for her flask — thank Primus, it was still at her hip. _Ratchet's gonna kill me when he finds out I've been sneaking nips._ The whisky burned, and she coughed, spitting a wad of congealed energon and what might have been a destroyed vocal seal. Double vision, but clearing. Left optic was dim, hazy. She took another pull. "Autobots, sound off!" she ordered, full of static; a nerve or fuel line must have been pulled from her neck; static and fluid filled her throat.

"Here, Prime," Hound raised an arm; she doubtful he was fully coherent, slumped against the bulkhead.

"I think I'm the only one up, Art," Smokescreen snarled, sliding back onto his backside. "If you can call it that."

Brawn groaned, Cosmos raised a finger, and Whirl banged his arm against the bulkhead. 

"Did we do any damage to him?" She stumbled to her feet, then back to her knees. "Frag!"

"Magnus got a few good hits before — " Smokescreen hesitated. " — Drift called up Max from the brig for backup. After that, it got chaotic, more so than before. Not sure what happened next." 

"Went to slag, that's what," Dipstick growled. "How th' frag did that clutch-muncher get on board?"

"Took some casualties," Brawn grumbled, pushing himself into a sitting position against Dipstick, who protested the action. "Medics are scrambling — they even got Hoist and Grapple lending a hand. Don't know if there's fatalities — "

"Pipes," Cosmos whimpered, otherwise unmoving. "He got Pipes. I found him — he was crushed. Total spark collapse. He got Pipes...."

Whirl struck the bulkhead again. _Bang! Bang!_

Artemis rose to her feet once more, this time succeeding, albeit unsteady. Queueing her comm, she hailed, "Oi, soldier, what's the sit-rep?" Reverb; he was close by. 

_Bangbangbangbangbang!_

"Knock it off, Whirl! We're all hurt!" she snapped. There again — the squelch of an open comm. She whipped her attention, lost her equilibrium, and stumbled.

Large hands caught her, one at her back, the other, her right arm. Unmistakable hands, especially as of late. "Ease up, beautiful; you took a pounding," Trailcutter ordered, keeping her upright.

"That's what she said," Whirl whimpered, dropping his arm; even wounded, the need to get a rib in was irresistible. 

"Art, you should sit," Hoist recommended, coming up on her left. "There's trauma to your shoulder and neck assembly. Likely the occipital nerve was damaged; are you experiencing fuzziness in your vision, left side? Dizziness? Vertigo?"

She ignored him, and instead glanced at Trailcutter from the peripheral of her right optic. "Magnus...?" 

Trailcutter grinned, but it was surface-deep. "Gave that gashole a beating — let's get you clear of this mess."

She held his gaze.

The smile fell, and he looked at Hoist for help, chewing his bottom lip, before bowing his head. "Art, um, I don't...I don't know how — "

"He's hurt," Artemis translated.

"He's dying," Hoist appended, optics wide in sympathy. "I'm sorry, Art — "

"How did Overlord get on board?" She demanded, pulling towards the medibay. 

"We're trying to figure that out," Trailcutter sighed, remaining by her side as support. "Art — "

"It's not the first time I've watched him die, 'Cutter," she stated in monotone. "I — I want to be there."

He said nothing, but nodded. 

The medibay's entrance was packed with triaged patients, thus the spillage into the hallway. Ambulon and Lancet handled the intake, the former Delphi nurse directing the latter with the superficial injuries while juggling the simple severed extremities.  
Taking a moment to evaluate Artemis's damage, Ambulon shook his head. "That's needing surgery, Artemis," he reported. "Looks like Hoist got you fixed up enough to move about without further damage — lines are cauterised, some patching...stabilied, good. Just take it easy until we get the O.R. cleared out."

"Magnus?" She questioned. "What about Magnus?"

Ambulon's confused gaze darted from Trailcutter, who gave the nurse an encouraging nod, and back to Artemis. "The O.R.'s crowded as it is; check in with First Aid before proceeding."

Once through the security doors, snippets of music wafted from the operating room. 

She slowed her pace, furrowed her brow.

"What is it?" Trailcutter questioned, his voice low. 

"What do you mean?"

"You're trying to figure something out."

Spend enough time with someone, and one starts picking up on the other's habits. She contemplated shrugging it off, but he would pick up her deflection. "The music. I know it."

 _"Empyrean Suite,"_ Skids revealed, taking her flank. He had superficial damage — better at dodging than she. "But what about you?" the theoretician arched a brow with a sliver of a smile. "How are you even standing?"

Artemis tilted her head towards Trailcutter, then winced. "Where's Overlord?"

Skids' smile fell, and he adverted his gaze. "Dead."

"And...that's a good thing...?" Artemis prompted.

"Twenty-two wounded, three critically," Skids reported, his optics darting to the O.R.'s entrance, then to Trailcutter, and finally back to Artemis. "including Magnus. Five dead."

"Primus, who else?" Trailcutter demanded, strength sapped.

Skids opened his mouth, aborted his first attempt, cleared his throat. "Rewind. He — um...he saved us all. He and Chromedome." He pressed a hand against his brow. "I don't really know the details." 

"Chromedome?" Both Artemis and Trailcutter questioned. 

After a drawn out moment, Skids settled on "Hurt."

The music stopped.

"You okay, Art?" Skids' questioned, then appended. "Stupid question — are you — "

"Shell shocked," she interrupted. "I'm shell shocked. It was my default emotion before I came on board. 'Cutter, I'm gonna need some help..." She led with her right shoulder, coaxing her companion towards the O.R. entrance.

"You sure you want to do this, Art?"

"You trying to talk me out of this?"

"I'd never be able to." He grinned, encouraging. "Your decision. I'll be right here, whatever you decide."

"You better," she gripped his shoulder, "seeing that you're keeping me from pitching forward."

First Aid was about to greet the two when Ratchet bellowed, "If you're neither patient nor medical personnel, I want you out of my O.R. _NOW_!"

Tailgate and Swerve bolted from the inner room, Ratchet storming after them as to be certain they left. 

"'Bout time we got some peace and fraggin' quiet." Ratchet turned to Artemis, opened his mouth, then, upon seeing the mess that was her front end assembly and lack of left arm, growled in frustration while holding up two fingers. "Two decacycles, I said!" 

"I'm not here for that," she snapped. 

His mouth did not deviate from its default scowl, but his optics softened. "Yeah, I figured you would." To Trailcutter, Ratchet asked, "Can she walk on her own?"

"'She's' standing right here," Artemis grouched.

"You'd say 'yes' out of stubbornness," Ratchet countered, "and I'd be the one dragging your aft to a slab. Better him than me." He flipped his thumb to his office. "Drop her in there, and wait out here. I need to talk to her in private."

"You sure you don't want 'Cutter there so you don't have to talk directly to me?" Artemis countered.

"Listen to me," Ratchet snarled through gritted teeth, "and listen good: I've got five confirmed dead and three dying. I am not in the mood for your code-fragging smart-aft remarks. In my office. Now." He spun on his foot, leading the way with thunder in his step.

"We're all stressed, Art," Trailcutter whispered against her helm. "He doesn't mean anything by it."

She remained silent, but leaned into his shoulder, the weight from the skirmish settling onto her spark. "Primus, I'm tired," she admitted.

"No shame in that, beautiful."

"I haven't got all sol, Artemis! Patients dying and all!" Ratchet shouted from his office.

 

*

 

"First of all, drop the tough-guy act," Ratchet ordered. "It ain't strength; it's pride. And it doesn't impress me. You're hurt, you're exhausted, and you're scared, so stop pretending you don't give a damn. Are we clear?"

She maintained optic contact — her left optic was flickering — and attempted to nod, wincing at the effort.

 _Occipital nerve, likely minor stripping to the outer casing, partial disconnect. Average three cycle procedure to reattach — if nothing else is FUBARed._ "I can take care of the pain and vision in ten cycles, max. That'll at least get you back to basic duty and out of my medibay in the interim. That's the good news. The bad news is that your front end assembly is shredded. Don't need to give you a full exam to tell you that. It'll take time, better part of a sol, and I've got 'bots in worse shape than you to fix. See your problem?"

"As long as there's no more omnicidal maniacs on board, I can handle that. So what's the worse news?"

Ratchet exhaled, his frown deepening. "Magnus is dying, and we can't stop the spark collapse."

Artemis sighed, sinking deeper into the chair. Rubbing her optics, she composed herself. "I'd imagine he fought well."

"Dammit, Artemis!" The C.M.O. slammed his palms on his desk and stood. "Would it kill you to at least express something other than contempt and sarcasm?"

"You're one to talk!" she snapped. "What do you think I'm going to do with my grief? I'm going to find out who's responsible for this and I'm going to get some answers."

"And by 'answers'," the air quotes, "you mean just how severe someone's going to get a beat down. And I can't allow that."

"Not your call, Ratchet," Artemis stood; even missing her left arm, she was ready for a fight. 

"Matter of fact, it is. Contrary to what you believe, the welfare of anyone and everyone on board this ship is my concern. You included. I have the say whether you go back to duty, get placed on medical leave, or get brigged because I think you're a danger to yourself and others. If you want to consult your demons, you do it on your time, outside my medibay. Here, I'm Prime. Are we clear?"

She made a fist, but keeping her balance was more important than swinging a punch. Instead, she fell into her seat, bowing her head. 

Ratchet gave a fierce nod. "Good. You stay here while I get your cohort to cart your aft to a vacant spot. If he's sticking around, he's going to make himself useful. And on that note...." he held out his hand, rapidly opening and closing his hand in a "gimme" gesture. 

She growled, unhitching the flask and handing it to him.

"You'll get it back when you leave." He placed it in his desk; a series of beeps, and he locked the drawer. Rising from his chair with a groan, he added, "I'm getting too old for this slag," and vacated the office.

 

*

 

The death clock over Ultra Magnus's prone form read ten sols, plus or minus, until total spark collapse. The one remaining spot in the O.R. had a clear line-of-sight of the dying second-in-command.

Artemis chose to stare at the ceiling. Something was off about knowing to the click when a loved one was going to die.

Granted, it gave a chance to say goodbye; on the other side of the coin, there was anticipation and false hope. 

Ratchet was busy in the antechamber, assessing the other injuries. Smokescreen had joined her and Drift in their corner of the O.R.,; to save space, the superficial injuries were treated in the antechamber and the hallway. True to his word, Ratchet conscripted Trailcutter in helping with the grunt work, freeing up his medical staff to concentrate on repair.

"So Cav came by," Smokescreen reported, to her right. "She says Rod's starting an inquiry to find out how Overlord got on board."

Artemis made a noncommittal noise, as an unpleasant thought slithered along her thought processes.

_Frag...Red!_

She called out for Trailcutter — he still had the image map file on his 'pad! — but there was no strength to project the summon beyond the corner. Slumping against the slab, she gritted her teeth against the pain. She turned her head to ease the pressure on her damaged neck, and now was staring at Magnus's profile.

To go out with a blaze on the battlefield — that was her ideal death wish. Lingering in a medically induced coma — ten sols! — was an eternity in purgatory.

If she had Roadbuster's sparkeater weapon, would she have the nerve to attempt what Whirl did? Now her thoughts drifted to Springer — the one name she did not muster, the one stab she did not execute. Was he still in the coma? Did he wake up? 

_Limbo._

"Believe in a miracle, Art," Drift reassured. "I know you don't think that way, but ... just once in your life, believe."

She chuckled, dark and thick with static. "I don't do miracles, Drift. I do retaliation, justice, at times revenge. But I don't do miracles." Dammit, where the hell's 'Cutter? If he hasn't already figured it out —

"Hey." He smiled, despite his wounds. "It's okay to think positive. It can help, call back the spark. I know you care for him, and he does for you, too. Have faith."

"'Faith' is knowing your partner's watching your back in a firefight. 'Faith' is knowing your squad is doing exactly what they're supposed to do on a mission. 'Faith' is knowing the one person who was investigating the attempted suicide of our chief of security is slapping irons on the gashole who snuck Overlord on board and not dying on the fraggin' slab next to me!" Her optics sparked angrily. "I'm sorry for being so blunt, but I am not in the mood to hear your proselytism!"

Drift met her glare, not with fear, but reverence. And why the frag was he still smiling? "You're a just person, Art," he stated, unwavering. "Strong and righteous in your convictions. They had all the reason to fear you."

"Frag off," she growled, returning her glare at the ceiling. 

"Hold faith, then," he added, maintaining that chipper tone. "in the friends who will cloak and comfort you in your time of need."

 

NEXT CHAPTER: Pretty When You Cry


End file.
